


Between My Mind And The Blade

by cuddlepunk



Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Anorexia, Bulimia, Burns, Drugs, M/M, REALLY BAD SELF HARM, Self-Destruction, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Sleep Deprivation, Suicide, like really really bad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-16
Updated: 2015-09-16
Packaged: 2018-04-21 03:02:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4812512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuddlepunk/pseuds/cuddlepunk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The flick of a wrist. The edge of bathroom counters. I can feel spiral staircases in my head and slides down my arms. Rivers and streams push through capillaries and veins. It hurts, you know? Slamming cabinets, metallic strings. I’m simply creating a symphony of littering dark reds and pulsing fatty caves, it’s true art. I’m an artist if nothing else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Between My Mind And The Blade

**Author's Note:**

> ahah generic disclaimer i dont own panic at the disco i dont own ryan this is a work of fiction, dont share this with anyone involved in panic,you get the idea
> 
> ALSO  
> HUGE TRIGGER WARNING EVERYTHING PLEASE DONT READ THIS IF YOURE TRIGGERED BY A N Y T H I N G ITS REALLY REALLY BAD
> 
> also i totally didnt edit this
> 
> okay enjoy

The flick of a wrist. The edge of bathroom counters. I can feel spiral staircases in my head and slides down my arms. Rivers and streams push through capillaries and veins. It hurts, you know? Slamming cabinets, metallic strings. I’m simply creating a symphony of littering dark reds and pulsing fatty caves, it’s true art. I’m an artist if nothing else.

Between my mind and the blade, destruction fit for genocide is born. The effects being stinging showers and jeans rubbing scars raw, sure, but the stitches I’ve yet to receive will make up for that eventually. Slash. Ring. Spray. If that’s not enough, oh, there are other ways to release. Bang. Blue. Blossoming evening, broken veins. Another favorite will always be splash. Burn. Run. Clear, diluting liquids mixing with bubblegum rose solutions. Drain me dry, leave my body a dehydrated mess. Push me down, scrape my knees on cement, break my mirrors. Shared ceramics, soft skin, marred.

Oh, the dark greens and blackened reds. Rotting, decaying, simulating and deep sensations. Leave me without attention once more. Allow my skin to fall off in sloppy clumps, let me die. Cut sections off, spread infections, rub it the wrong way. Inject bleach, waterlog it, rip it all off. Drag your nails over my fresh openings, allow teeth to sink in. Destroy me, baby. I’m here for anyone's taking, though no one will ever want me.

It’s all so beautiful. My one and only positive attribute. I disguise my inner, mangled self with prickly, immersing sites of self slaughter. Embed that blade as far as it can go, scratch into bones, slice tendons, sever ligaments, and graze arteries. Axe across thighs and forearms, then prod open rifts with sharp nails and ballpoint pens. Deeper, darling, deeper. Contribute to your own waxy wreck, erode your skin, infect your tissues.

Measure out a tablespoon of kerosine and slide it over my tongue. Smooth novocaine over healed skin, splash bleach on what’s healing. Let hydrogen peroxide drip onto my eyelids, allow gasoline to pool in my collarbones. Acid streams form between my ribs, ammonia puddles separating each vertebrae in my spine. 

Spencer catches me with concerned eyes. My knuckles are scabbed and tearing, it hurts to play. I’m okay, Spence. Just got mad and punched a wall. That’s all.

It’s foggy. I can feel clouds in my head as blood stains the inside of dress shirts, I feel dizzy as pus drips onto my guitar. Performing live is always a weird experience. Trying to keep up appearances and passing my absentmindedness off as me being a stoner. Trying to conserve what little energy I have left for properly interacting with band members. There’s a reason the rose vest is red, there’s a reason I wear so much stage makeup, there’s a reason I never wear shorts.

Kneel before public restroom toilets, feel your knees dig into grimy tiled floors. Feel as stomach acid pushes up against the walls of your insides, feel your lungs contract. I feel as if ant poison is resting in the back of my throat. Wash your mouth out, the deed is done. Splash your face with cold water, removing any lasting rosy cheeks. Place your freezing hands up against your slightly warmer neck, we can’t lose cover here.

Black out at random, pass out on the tour bus for days on end. Zone out mid sentence, forget who you are. It’s just a sign you’re really getting there, it’s okay. It’s good. Drift through day to day life, follow others in a trance, just hope you’re in the right place. Draw a blank on who you are, grow a little more amnesia each hour. It doesn’t matter who I am. It never did.

Push yourself harder. Force another lap around the track, just swim for another five minutes. I’m sure it couldn’t hurt to do five more sit ups. There’s no way a cold bath could do me wrong. Stand instead of sit. Walk around the hotel room while listening to music. Stay awake another hour, it’s not the end of the world. Ignore the numb in your head, familiarize yourself with comfort. You never really even liked the warm anyways.

Mix cyanide with water and bring it to a boil. Clouds of toxicity form in the air. Inhale it all, don’t worry about what you feel. It’ll be worth it in the end, I promise. Take a swig of pesticides, cover your skin in fluoride. They never really cared about you anyways. Pass out again and wake up to pots burning on the stove. Turn it off and pass out again, this time on the way to your bed. Break a lamp, electrocute yourself. It doesn’t really matter at this point.

I run my shaking hands over the warm, smooth surface of Brendon’s forearms. So delicate and velvety. I slide my dry, cracked lips over his collarbones. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.

It’s gotten to the point where I can barely walk without an uncomfortable tightness in your cocoon of scar tissues. Feel every part of my body ache. Every movement kills, from the blink of my eyes to the lick of my lips. Be trapped in my own body, I’ll spend every moment forcing myself to act normally. It’s what I’m here for.

Each slight bump to my frame causes another blotch of blues and purples, knees look like the evening sky. Jagged at every edge, sharp shoulders poking out underneath sweater after sweater. I don’t matter. I don’t matter. None of this matters. Just cause yourself more pain, it’s all that ever helps.

One of these days I’ll gonna cross over the line and finally hit the ceiling. I can’t wait for that day to come, nor am I any less excited to see how far I can take it beforehand. It’s become a pastime of mine, a favorite sport per se. It may be worrying to others, but it’s not like I didn’t stop caring what they saw in me long ago.

Grant matches the path to your burnt fingertips, leave streaks of hair straighter passages down your back. Let lighters make a home in back pockets. They belong there more than you’ve ever belonged on this world at all. Gas stove tops are top of the line entertainment as I heat up different utensils and press them against the concave where my stomach once was. Blister and sear skin, it was it’s only purpose all along.

I look across a broad stage once more, lock eyes with soft browns. The last fleeting sensation of belonging I’ll ever feel. Watch as his guitar brushes up against his full hips, stare at the soft, clean skin of his neck. He’s too good for me. Too clean. Too sane. It’s honestly quite a miracle I’ve yet to completely corrupt him. It has to stop.

It has to stop. I have to stop.

The flick of a wrist, the walls are covered in blood, I’m covered in blood.

I’ve saved him.


End file.
